absence outside.  Whose hands could have done it?  Not those of Coombs, surely, for he could not have passed me and attained the house while I was in the garden unseen.  Nor Sally, for she possessed no strength to more than drag the dead man to some near-by covert.  With the possibility of this in mind I searched the vacant rooms of that floor, closets and all, thoroughly, but to no result.  There was, therefore, but one conclusion possible—­unknown parties were involved.  We were not alone in the house in spite of its apparent desertion.

I paused in doubt before Mrs. Bernard’s door, convinced this was the truth.  Should I tell her frankly the story of the night, my vague discoveries, my suspicion?  I surely had no right to deceive the woman, or keep her with me.  I had determined myself to face it out, to risk life if need be, to learn the truth.  But I had no right to further involve her.  She had accompanied me thus far innocently enough, accepting my explanation, driven to acquiescing by the desperate situation in which she found herself.  Already she regretted her hasty action.  To involve her still deeper would be heartless.  I could not do it, at least not without full confession.

I rapped at the door twice before there was any movement within.  Then her voice asked who was there, and at my answer she came out fully dressed, fronting me with questioning eyes.

“The night has rested you,” I said smilingly, my heart beating in swift appreciation of her beauty.  “Are you ready for breakfast?”

“For anything to escape the loneliness of that room,” she replied seriously.  “If I really look rested, it is not from sleep for I have passed the night in terror.”  She held out her hands as though seeking to assure herself of my real presence.  “Tell me what is wrong with this house?  What occurred last night?”

“I am not altogether sure myself,” I said, striving to speak quietly, and holding her hands tight, “But I will tell you all I know, after you have explained.  Were you disturbed?”

“Yes, but I hardly comprehend what was reality, and what dream.  I slept some, I am sure, lying pressed upon the bed.  At first I thought that was impossible, I was so frightened, and I had so much to think about, but found myself too utterly exhausted to keep awake.  Yet my slumber was fitful, and filled with dreams.  But I am sure of some things—­my door was tried twice, and I heard someone prowling about the hall—­”

“That might have been me,” I interrupted, “as I was out there during the night, but I certainly never tried your door.”

“You had a light?”

“Yes.”

“I saw that shining over the transom; it was much later when my door was tried; not long before daylight I think.  Whoever it was, passed out the front hall window onto the porch roof.  My light was burning, although turned low, and no doubt he saw me sitting up, wide awake on the edge of the bed, for he had disappeared by the time I gained sufficient courage to approach the window and look out.”